The Moments We Live For
by Katieelessar
Summary: First Rent fic. Each chapter will be a different scene from Roger’s and Mark’s life from Roger’s withdrawal period to his death. MR may come up in later chaps. Please read and review! Upped the rating for violence and cursing.
1. The Same Tale

_Title: The Moments We Live For_

_Author: Katieelessar_

_Rating: T_

_Genre: General_

_Characters: Mark and Roger_

_Summary: First Rent fic. Each chapter will be a different scene from Roger's and Mark's life from Roger's withdrawal period to his death. Please read and review!_

_Note: I haven't decided if there'll be any Mark/Roger later but for now, everything's slash-free._

_Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns it all. I just play with them to pass the time._

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**The Moments We Live For**

**Chapter** **One: The Same Tale**

_Time remains inconsistent._

It played a game of its own with ever changing rules.

Mark still could not understand how it could glide by so swiftly in times when he needed it the most.. Playing cards with Roger...drinking at the Life... filming the underbelly of New York... While he lived and breathed and moved through these careless moments, Time whipped by with little more than a tick.

There were minutes that stretched out as slow as dripping honey. His first kiss with Maureen...listening to Roger play his fender...lying next to Roger on the roof to greet the moon... Times sweeter than honey.

Then there were these long moments…. when the next could shake his world, turn it upside with no more than a scant apology. These were the moments he wished would leave quickly and never, ever come back.

Mark sighed and reached out for Roger's pale hand that rested on the white sheet. It was their second trip that month to the hospital for the same reason as the last—alcohol poisoning. Mark never had a problem with Roger getting himself drunk before...before _it_ happened, but now the man was using the substance to escape his pain to the paradise free of all pain.

_Yet I have never lost someone like he has... _Mark thought, trying to choke back the tears that came to close to spilling.

"Roger," he said brokenly, absorbed by the shallow rise and fall of the unconscious man's chest. He gently ran his hand through the long scraggy hair—a new characteristic he was still trying to get used to. He had always known Roger as the lean, spiked hair, clean-faced rocker.

He had tried so hard to help and yet, here was his latest failure at keeping him friend safe—safe from the alcohol, drugs, violence—and whatever else Roger had done to get himself into this position.

_He doesn't know how to control his pains. I don't even know._ Mark shook his head in defeat, resting it against the cool bar of the hospital bed, still clutching Roger's hand. _He thinks hurting himself will make him feel…alive? Will it make him forget? How could he forget? We can't forget. We have to remember to forget..._

"Oh, April," he whispered to himself, trying to remember the sweet, loyal April who had been apart of their lives for the pasttwo years. She was the always the first to stand up and protest (next to Maureen);the first to wear purple lipstick with an orange skirt and yellow heels; the first to show up at Roger's shows and last to leave; the first to start drinking but be the last one standing. April was April,with her unique presence that had graced all of their lives.

_Until now…_

But then there was always the other side of April. The side she only shared with Roger when they were alone. The side of her that she buried and sought to escape from that only the needle could ease. As long as she had a filled needle and Roger, everything was okay. Until the results came in. There was finally that last blow that came in the form of a small slip of paper with her name and her verdict beneath that could not be quenched by the needle but--

_Stop it Cohen, stop it._ He felt his forehead break out into a cold sweat, as he couldn't stop himself from recalling those horrible shots on his reel from that day.

"April?"

He started and raised his head. _Roger_. He was slowly waking—eyes fluttering and Mark loosened his grip on his hand.

"Roger?" He asked slowly and quietly, aware that the other might still have a heavy headache.

"Coh--Mark? Wha—" He began to raise himself up but Mark slowly eased him back into the pillows. _He was so pale._

"You're in the hospital," he answered the unspoken question. "You've been out for at least 4 hours since we brought you here."

"How the hell did I get here? How—" the words died on his lips as a coughing fit swamped him for several moments. Mark rubbed the rocker's back until he had relaxed back into his bed. He was too pale and too sweaty when he finally stopped.

"Cohen?" he asked weakly. "What happened?"

Mark bit his lip, afraid to unsettle him anymore than he already was.

"I found you, Roger," he answered, submitting to the confused stare Roger was giving him. "You were on the streets near Avenue B, laying in one of alleys. You…you weren't breathing so..." He took a shuddering breath. "I called the ambulance and they took you here as fast as they could."

Roger nodded wearily, like a five year old who has grown tired of the same bed time story told over and over again. He turned over on his side away from Mark and buried himself into his covers. A dim part of his mind screamed at him, saying he should thank Mark, give him a smile, an embrace, even a mumbled apology but he couldn't muster the care to do so. He just wanted to sleep and forget it all.

Mark knew it was the lasting effects of Roger's last shots that were doing this but he still felt hurt that Roger would forget him…again.

They did not speak for a long time—so long, Mark was dozing off when Roger's voice finally revealed a deeper concern.

"Where's my stash?"

Mark's head immediately shot up, weariness aside. _Shit, why did Roger have to think of that now? Of all times?_

"It's somewhere… safe," he replied carefully. _Safe from your grasp_, he wanted to answer aloud. "How do you feel, Rog?"

"I need it _now_, Cohen," Roger snapped. It hurt Mark how Roger was so…distant from him that he no longer even called him by his first name.

_It's the drugs,_ he consoled himself. _The drugs…and I'm doing the right thing to keep them away so they couldn't hurt Roger or me or anybody else anymore._

Even with this steadfast resolve, his stomach churned in apprehension. Roger was weak right now but he had his voice and he could throw whatever filthy words or accusations he had brewing in him. These were worse to Mark. A black eye would heal in a few weeks given time and care. The other wounds—the sharp and cruel words—crushed his heart raw.

"You don't need it right now. Just take a deep breath." _Good_. The first thing he could do was to remain calm. Keep talking so he can't. "The doctors think that you'll be able to get out here within two days. I—"

"Two fuckin' more days? No way in hell am I staying in this hole for two more days! God dammit, Cohen. I know what you're doing. You're avoiding the damn question. Well guess what? You were always a bad liar and always will be so face the fuckin' truth and give me my god damn stash before I have to take it from you!"

Mark remained as still as his quivering hands would allow him. _Don't flinch. Don't show him that that hurt._

"No, Roger. No."

"Cohen… The shit's mine anyways."

"No, it's not. It's just more of your pain and I am not going to allow my _friend_ to hurt himself anymore than he's hurt right now," he paused as he saw thecolor rise inRoger's face. "Look at you, Roger! You were half dead when I found you! You could have died if I hadn't ridden my bike down that alley. I would've never found you, or anyone until…I don't know!"

"Stop saying such shit, Cohen. So what if I had been drinking a little too much and getting a high a little more? It's not your fuckin' business anyways. It's my body; I can do whatever the hell I want with it." Mark began to speak but Roger put up a hand. "Shut it! I don't want to hear you saying, 'Oh, Roger, it'll be okay. We can forget all about April and be the happy little fuckers we always were without a care in the world.' Dammit! I thought you were _my_ friend! I thought you would support _me_--"

"I _will_ support you," Mark answered, raising his voice slightly. "But not with this. Not with the drugs or the drinking or the fighting. I will help you come back to yourself, Roger. I promise, I promise I will but I need you to want that too."

"Well maybe I don't want it! Maybe I want to forget. Maybe..."

Mark let Roger talk by himself for a while, allowing the harsh words and insults to wash over him but not penetrate. They had had such fights like this so many times in the pastsix weeks. So many and not an inch closer to healing. He rubbed his temples, already beginning to feel the edges of despair creep around him even but he refused to back down. Once he lost hope, Roger had no one.

Gradually, he brought himself out of his reflection and back to Roger who still stared at him coldly. Mark matched the gaze.

"Are you done, Roger?"

Silence.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Nothing. Mark wondered--

"I hate you."

He blinked but replied quickly, "That's okay."

"I hate you. I hate you. Don't you hear me? I HATE you!" Roger sat up in a struggle, trying to grope Mark's neck but he was too far away. He reached as far as his tired body would allow him before collasping back into the bed, sobbing openly and shaking from head to toe.

"I hate you..." he whispered as sweat broke out over his body, mixing with his stinging tears. "I _hate_ you...Oh God...Mark, I'm so sorry." He rubbed his face, palms muffling his agonized voice. "I just miss her. Oh God, I miss her so much...why? Why? I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

Slowly, Mark reached out and placed a soft hand on the soaked shoulder, rubbing soothing circles around the sobbing man's back while murmuring soft words of consolation.

"I'm here, Roger. Hush, I'm here."

And there they remained for the rest of the night; the flimmaker guiding the way to his vision while the musician sang the words of a griever.

The End

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The end of the first chapter anyways. I hope you enjoyed. Any typos, grammar mistakes or bad characterizations are my fault. No flames as always.


	2. A Leap of Faith?

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed! Sorry this was so delayed. I hope what I have written isn't too boring or overdramatic. If it is…sorry to disappoint you. :) Please read and review! I love reviews to death!

Disclaimer: It's fan fiction. 'Nuff said.

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**Chapter Two: A Leap of Faith?**

"Roger—no!"

The scream echoed across the roof, roaring passed the door and slamming into the unhearing ears of the sole occupant. Shredded hands, soaked in blood stretched out from the body of him, almost like the wings of an angel—a tormented and uncaringbeing Thin lines stretched down the exposed arms of the angel, some healed over multiple times, others barely looked like skin at all so overused they were.

His clouded eyes flickered down one of the lines, rage crushing his heart. This is what he had become. Nothing more than a scar of theEarth.A callused imprint. Romantized fantasies had been wrong once again. There was no pride or beauty in this kind of life he was living. Poor, starving, bleeding and sick. Always sick, sick, _sick_.

Green eyeslooked passed himself to world passing incessantly without him, not giving a care to the act he was about to commit.Cars flashed by, honking in irritation; pedestrians ambled along, some chatting carelessly with their friends; others peering unfriendly into the dark passages between buildings as if expecting certain death.

Fear, death, hurt…why did he need these things that haunted him? How could he finish the remaining days of his life with no one to love and no one to love him? How could he face a world so cold with no warmth in his veins? Was his dream really worth it? With no immortality? His invulnerability as shredded as his hands.

Green eyes flickered backto the tattered remains of his hands, wrecked from trying to escape his wearing thoughts through the walls. No longer was he the intrepid rebel ready to push his limits. No longer was he the bright eyed musician consumed with the beauty of sharing music and no longer was he the staunch friend who would defend anyone in need.

He had died.

He had died that day. He shook his head, feeling fresh tears spill down his cheeks. It was his time to follow her. Why the fuck didn't he do this sooner?

"Roger…oh fuck! NO!"

"I'm coming, April…" With one last look to the world he had already left, he shut his eyes and leaned forward. His feet teetered on the concrete lip before breaking free. He was so close…just---

"**Roger**!"

He felt his body falling back, feet planted firmly onto the ground, falling again—but this time, the other direction.

_Fuck._

Arms had locked themselves around his chest and were pulling him away from the air…away from his freedom…_No_!

He unburied his voice from his chest, feeling the adrenaline that had once feed his veins so fervently fuel his shout.

"NO!" His eyes flew open as he twisted around in the vice grip. He stopped moving but the hold remained strong until he got his bloody hands round the 'lock' and wrenched it free. Ignoring the shocking pain traveling up his arms,he whipped around to face the adversary of his freedom.

"Roger, please, don't do this." Why did that voice sound so…familiar? Then he saw, his emerald eyes locked with blue and recognition screeched in his heart. _Mark_?

"Mark?" He took a step back. Mark…?_ Mark?_

"Yes, Roger, it's Mark. What the hell were you thinking?"

_Mark_…? His hands clenched tightly at his sides, tearing open the lightly healed wounds. Fresh blood streamed. _No, no, no_. His Mark would understand. His Mark would let him do this because it was the right thing to do. This wasn't his Mark. This was some…traitor. Some traitor who had cheated him out of his only hope for happiness.

"No." The tone in his voice made Mark wince but he did not budge. "You would let me fall if you were really Mark."

"Roger, it _is_ Mark and I never, ever want you to do something like that. I don't want you to die…_shit Roger_!" Roger moved faster than Mark could counter and squeezed Mark's neck between his hands, digging his fingers into the flushed skin. Mark made a noise akin to a sob and a shout while scraping Roger's hands away. The look Roger gave him was nothing like he had seen before. It was a look of pure death.

"No! You listen to me you bastard! Piece of worthless fuckin' shit! Why didn't you let me fall? Fuckin' tell me before I rip off your neck!" Mark coughed weakly as Roger viciously pushed him back against one of the pipes that punctuated the building's roof. The shock knocked all remaing air out of his lungs. He fought for air, knowing he wouldn't last much longer...

_But no_! He couldn't fail. He couldn't let Roger do this. It would destroy him before it destroyed Mark.

"Roger…" he whispered raggedly. "Please…d-don't…" He put his hands on Roger's again and this time, dug his fingernails deeply into the open cuts on Roger's hands. He cried out in pain, loosening his grip on Mark. Mark moved quickly, wrenching Roger's hands away and scrambling to get himself between Roger and the edge of the roof. He wasn't about to make that mistake again.

Roger looked up, a mix of tears and rage swimming in his eyes. Mark swallowed hard. This wasn't his Roger looking at him. This was some terrible creation of drugs and sorrow and disease. This _wasn't_ Roger.

"Roger, I know you think this is the only way out."

"You don't know shit," Roger hissed and took a step toward him. Mark felt the blood drain from his body but he continued, taking a step forward as well.

"You're in pain. You're in so much pain. You think you have to deal with this—all of this by yourself. You think that your friends have left you to deal with April—

"—don't you dare say her name you—"

"And HIV and the drugs all alone. I know it seems so easy. It's so easy to take that step and end it all down there." He cast a hand toward the edge of the roof, taking another step toward the heaving Roger. "There will be no more pain and waiting and hurt. It's there. It's final. It's the last thing you have."

Roger remained silent and to Mark, this was even more unnerving than his voice but he continue anyways.

"But it's not the last thing you have, Roger. There is still another way. It is life but not the one you think you are running away from. This is a life full of friends and a home that will love you and help you. There are so many people who want to help you, Rog. There's me…" The heat in Roger's eyes dimmed slightly. "I want to help you because you're my friend and I know that I'm yours and if you let me, I will do exactly that. Everyone needs one more chance, haven't you always said that all it takes is one more try and eventually we'll get our break? Well, here's yours and I'm asking you please, please, for god's sakes, Rog, take it."

From the look in Roger's eyes,Mark knew he had struck a chord. Therush from the drugsdwindled asa flood of tears that fell down his face. Mark knew his looked no different but he didn't care enough to wipe them away. Instead, he opened his arms widely, beckoning softly.

"Come here, Rog."

It took a moment, no more, before the trembling body of the former rocker slammed into his chest. Sobs rattled his body from and for a long moment, nothing else filled the cold air of the rooftop.

"W-will she…?" Mark looked down at the voice from his arms; so small and weak like glass. He sighed sadly.

"Will she, what, Rog?" He asked softly, passing a gentle hand through man's rough hair.

"Will she be okay?" He knew whom he was referring to without asking.

"Yes, she will be okay." He paused to take a breath to steady himself. "She made her decision but not yours."

"It hurts." Mark felt more tears press against his eyes but he blinked them back this time. He needed to show Roger that he was strong.

"I know it hurts but it won't hurt as much in a while. Give it time, Rog. You're allowed to feel pain and scream and cry. You don't have to pretend to be happy. We all understand more than you know." They pulled away, but Mark kept his hands firmly planted on Roger's shoulders, staring softly into the agonized eyes.

"You're strong, Roger. You'll make it. We'll make it."

"Fuck, Mark…I'm…I'm so sorry I—"

"Shh." Mark placed a finger to the quivering lips. "I understand. You don't need to apologize for anything. It's not your fault, please believe that if nothing else; it's not your fault."

Roger nodded numbly even though he didn't fully believe the words. There were so many things he was the blame for, couldn't Mark see that?

But he said he would help. He wouldn't have to do this alone which must mean there must be something in him that he couldn't see yet but Mark could. What ever it was, he would have faith in him and Mark to find it.

"Come on, let's get your hands cleaned up."

And there would be no leap but of faith.

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A/N: So what did you think? Like? I really hope you enjoyed it. I tried hard to capture the moment. Please review! Thank you! 


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